


Just Some Scary Movie

by WolfOfAnsbach



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017), Scream (Movies)
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Horror, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Reader Beware You're In For A Scare, Slasher, a bunch of people die in this, i can't pace myself, not really - Freeform, spooks warning
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-07
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-12-24 20:29:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,534
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12020409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WolfOfAnsbach/pseuds/WolfOfAnsbach
Summary: Scream-Riverdale crossover________________________________________It all starts with a phone call...Then Jason Blossom is murdered in the night. Or maybe 'butchered' would be a better word.For a little town like Riverdale, it's a tragedy. But things are about to get a whole lot worse.Because now Betty Cooper and her friends are being stalked by a dark shape in an eerie white mask wielding a hunter's knife.Someone in town has decided to erase the fine line between film and reality. Someone who likes horror flicks just a little too much. Someone who isn't afraid to spill blood to prove it.Who could it be? Who couldn't it be?Either way, the bodies are piling up and...well...what's YOUR favorite scary movie?





	1. Fade In: Who's that knocking at your door?

**Author's Note:**

> The other day on tumblr someone posted some photos comparing Skeet Ulrich in Scream with Jughead. That got the gears turning, and I wrote a piece of flash fiction that was basically a few iconic scenes from Scream with Riverdale characters inserted. I liked the idea so much that I made this:
> 
> http://68.media.tumblr.com/5e669955cffb45b1e58e90eb79080174/tumblr_ovrzp1Qq3u1u4p0puo1_500.jpg 
> 
> I still wasn't satisfied and eventually gave in to the temptation to turn it into a full-fledged fic. Because I can't balance my life and don't know when to stop taking on projects. Assuming I can pace myself even a little bit though, it won't be too long. Just a few chapters probably. 
> 
> I will be shamelessly stealing dialogue and plot points from various movies in the Scream franchise, but I don't intend to rewrite the plot of any single one. 
> 
> With Halloween not too far off it seems like a good time. 
> 
> So, I hope you're ready to find out which of our beloved characters is behind the mask of ghostface.

“Hello?”

It’s usually Jason’s habit to let the phone ring on unknown callers, but something compels him to give this one a break. Maybe it’s because he’s a little more attentive in general, at the moment. He’s spent most of his seventeen years here in the dark bowels of Thornhill, but he still can’t help the primal, subhuman chill whenever he’s alone in the house. It’s simply so large. So sprawling. So old. Jason is sure he still has yet to visit every room in the manor. You’d never know if someone was here with you when they weren’t supposed to be. He’s still in the habit of refusing to drink anything within an hour before bed. It stems from the memories of boyhood, when he would lay awake into the darkest hours of the night, desperately needing a bathroom but far too terrified to make the arduous journey through all of those twisting hallways and dark empty rooms to the nearest one. God knew what might be lurking in those shadows. Jason shakes his head. Whatever. Anyway, it’ll be nice to hear a human voice.

“Who is this?” Comes his newfound conversation partner. It’s not someone he recognizes, that’s clear right away. It’s a man’s voice, a bit soft, but still distinctly masculine. There’s a gravelly, grave tone to it. The sort of voice that neither repulses or endears, but bids one to stop and listen.

“Uh…who are you looking for?” Jason asks. With one hand he manipulates the phone, with the other he tears open the pantry and scans it top to bottom. Soon, he locates his quarry. Jason retrieves the can of salt and whirls around. There’s a bowl of fresh made popcorn on the dining room counter, begging to be salted and buttered. None of that microwave shit, either. Good old fashioned homemade popcorn. He lays on the salt nice and thick.

“Who am I speaking to?”

Jason rolls his eyes.

“I think you’ve got the wrong number, dude.”

He brings the receiver down onto the base and kills the line. Jason tosses two pieces of popcorn into the air and catches them in his mouth. He takes the bowl and starts for the sitting room. As he reaches the couch and prepares to sit, his cellphone rings. He slides it from his pocket and registers the name of the caller. Or rather, the lack of one. Jason grimaces. Then, against his better judgment, he answers.

“Hello.” Comes the voice. The same voice he’d spoken with in the dining room. For a moment, a finger of fear slithers through Jason’s gut. Then he puts himself together. It’s probably an associate of his father’s or a friend of Cheryl’s with a confusing array of numbers somewhere.

“I think I just talked to you.” Jason explains. “Who is this? Who are you looking for?”

There’s a moment of silence.

“You. Maybe.”

Jason chortles. He stuffs a few more kernels of popcorn into his mouth.

“Yeah? You got a timeshare to sell me?”

“Nah.” He chews his popcorn. He flips through the ‘horror’ category on Netflix until he finds the title he’s looking for. _Nightmare on Elm Street_. Bingo. Selects the movie. Hits play. He almost forgets about he phone in his hand and the voice on the other end as the movie begins. The crude, industrial footage of an off-screen Krueger forging his signature glove. Then the voice makes itself known again. “ _Nightmare on Elm Street_ , huh?” Jason’s brow furrows. There hasn’t even been a word of dialogue.

“Uh…yeah? How’d you-“

“I like scary movies.”

The primal chill comes back, creeping its way along the nape of his neck and across his shoulder blades. He stares through the darkened windows into the night beyond. He hopes Cheryl or his parents get home, soon.

“Yeah, I can tell. See you around.”

He hangs up. Jason readjusts himself on the couch, as if it’ll wipe away the memory of the last few minutes. The movie gets going. The nagging fear is suppressed by the artificial frights of Wes Craven. On screen, Tina’s just woken up from her first nightmare, and Jason’s just forgetting the phone calls, when his cell rings again. He lifts it, cursing. Same number. Same guy. Among his emotions, annoyance takes primacy.

“Hello, again.”

“Yeah, hello. Seriously, who the hell is this? If this is supposed to be a prank, I hate to break it to you, but it's not very funny.”

“Guess.”

He rolls his eyes. It’s probably one of the guys on the team. This is about the level of wit he expects from them.

“Reggie, right? Hey, why don’t you just use this voice full-time? It’s a lot cooler than your real one.”

“Try again.”

Huh.

“Wait. Jones, is this you?” If there was anyone in town who could recognize _Nightmare on Elm Street_ from the audio of the first five minutes…“Is this because of the thing in Creative Writing? Look, I-“

“Afraid not.”

“…Cheryl? You better kn-“

“Wrong again!”

“Uh huh. Well, whoever you are, I’m gonna hang up now. And I’m not going to pick up again. I’m betting I’ll see you at school tomorrow.”

He lifts his thumb to hang up.

“I wouldn’t.” The voice hisses, and there’s something so hateful and filled with rage in it that he pauses.

“No?” He challenges, his own anger beginning to bubble over. “No? Why not?”

“You’re watching the scary movie” the voice oozes, an ugly glee bleeding through. “You tell me.” Jason stands, cautious. The window’s open, a light breeze tossing and playing the thin curtains through the air. He reaches out to close it. His fingers fall upon the sill. “Of course…if this were a scary movie, you probably don’t want to be going for the window.”

Jason freezes. Christ, they're _looking_ at him. He whips his head around. No one behind him. Looks out through the open window, across Thornhill’s grim cemetery sprawling over the hill. Darkness, save for the thin shafts of moonlight that pour through the clouds.

“Who the fuck is this? If you’re on my property I’ll give you thirty seconds to fuck off before I grab a gun.”

It’s not an entirely idle threat. His father does have quite the selection of firearms available. Unfortunately, they’re kept in the hunting shed (about the size of a small house) some fifty paces across open ground from Thornhill itself. Across the cemetery. It’s not exactly a trip he wants to make alone given the circumstances.

“Sure. Come on out to the shed. I’ll be waiting.” The voice warns. Jason shivers. He backs himself into a corner, slow. Keeps his back to the wall.

“What the fuck do you want?” He growls, forcing the fear from his voice.

“I wanna play a game.”

“Go to hell!”

A dark little chuckle. The voice crackles and distorts for a moment, like an old radio.

“You’re _already there_!”

There’s a tremendous crash and Jason knows the brittle outside door to the kitchen, mostly glass and wood, has shattered.

Fuck.

His heart doesn’t race so much as it throbs and then slows, uncertain, unable to adjust to this reality. Jason darts from his corner and half-slides to the fireplace, plucking a poker from its rack. The weight of it in his hands restores to him some measure of confidence and self-certainty. He’s not being hunted. He’s in a fight. He flips the poker and wields it like a club. Tentatively, he starts for the kitchen. Just as he expected, the door lies broken, the great glass window exploded inwards, the wooden frame bent and twisted.

_Alright, keep the son of a bitch talking._

Jason turns in a slow 360, making certain the kitchen’s empty.

“Okay. What’s the game, asshole?”

“It’s _real_ simple. I think you’ll like it.” The voice pauses for effect. “Movie trivia.” Jason almost laughs. Something creaks and he whirls around, to face a halfway-open pantry door. “Nice moves.” He swings the fire poker through the air in frustration. “Ready for your first question?”

“Fuck off.”

The voice takes it as a yes.

“We’ll start off easy. What's Nancy Thompson's address in  _Nightmare on Elm Street_?”

Well. That is easy.

“1428 Elm Street.”

“Good!” The voice exults. “See, we’re off to such a good start!”

Jason backs out of the kitchen, slow. The second he’s in the corridor, he spins around. Clears both ends of the dark hallway. Starts back towards the sitting room.

Jason scopes out the sitting room, peeking behind curtains and behind the television. He positions himself in the dead center of the room, as far as possible from any spots of darkness or concealment. He crouches, wielding the poker like a knight with his sword. He needs to call the fucking cops, obviously. But if he cuts the call short his assailant will figure something’s up.

“Well? Don’t you have any more questions for me?”

He begins inching back towards the kitchen, and the house phone there. Jason throws periodic looks over his shoulder as he goes.

“Sure. Name the 1961 Hammer Horror classic starring Oliver Reed.” What the fuck? He nears the kitchen. The house phone taunts him from its base mounted on the far wall. Beyond the shattered door, he can see the rolling hill upon which Thornhill is perched, and upon the rise, the jagged stones that mark the family cemetery. Wait. _Wait_. He _does_ know this one, by sheer chance. They’d watched it in his Media Arts class last year. Goddamn it…it was a werewolf movie. Something ‘of the Werewolf’. Shit. “I’m waiting….”

_Mark of the Werewolf?_

_Howl of the Werewolf!_

No!

“ _Curse of the Werewolf_!” He shouts, triumphant.

“Fantastic!” The voice hisses. “I’m impressed!” He’s _almost_ to the phone. He begins to reach out a hand, slowly. Carefully. No sensitive movements. “Now, our next question’s going to be a little different…”

“Yeah?”

His fingers curl. The house phone is _inches_ away.

“Ready?” The voice doesn’t wait for a response. “ _Where am I?”_ Jason lunges for the phone. His fingers brush the receiver. It comes unhooked from the base. He scrambles for it. It slips from his hand. Clatters to the floor.

“What?”

“Where am I?” Jason’s entire body seizes up with fear. Did he _imagin_ _e_ hearing the familiar vocal overlap of a caller in the  _same room_? “I’ll give you a hint: Not very far.” God, he must have imagined it.

“Fuck off.”

“Answer the question.”

“Kiss my ass!”

“You’re not playing the game right, Jason.” Hearing his name out of that mouth sends him into an unimaginable rage. “Come on. Be a good sport.”

“Fuck your game!”

“Okay. Why don’t we try another question?” The voice rises. “Who’s going to find your corpse first, mommy, daddy, or your sweet sister?” His cell shakes in his hand. He almost forgets about the home phone on the ground and his desperate need to call the police. He’s pissed, now.

“Can you see me?”

“Maybe.”

“Then come out where I can see _you_ , you fucking cowardly little prick.”

“As you wish.”

The pantry door bursts out and his unseen foe charges out at him. Jason cries out in horror and stumbles backwards.

The figure rises to full height, wrapped in a long black robe and a cheap, white rubber mask that mimics a human shriek, the eyes tilted low in panic, the mouth stretched out and down to unnatural, obscene proportions. Like a Munch painting come alive. Jason recognizes the costume. A mass-produced Halloween outfit marketed as ‘Father Death’ at every dollar and party store in the state.

In hand, Father Death brandishes a long, wicked hunting knife. A _big_ one. The type you use to clean a kill. And not a rabbit or a squirrel. A deer or a moose.

Or a man.

The figure brings the knife high and swings it low. Jason leaps away, thanking God for the reflexes trained into him by organized sports. He kicks, catching his attacker in the thigh. Father Death stumbles back, knees slamming into the counter. Jason doesn’t press on. He turns and flees, out of the shattered kitchen door and into the darkness.

In the distance, framed by the sickly glow of the moon, Jason can just make out the dark lump of wood and stone. His father’s hunting shed. There are a hundred guns in there. If he can just grab his dad’s Benelli or Ruger, this fucker is going to rue the day he bought that stupid costume. Jason sprints into the cemetery.

The tombstones rise up around him on all sides, squat little slabs of rock, each carved with a fading name. The names of his ancestors. Gone from the world and remembered only in cracked, weathered marble. Screaming not to be forgotten. Against his better judgment, he stops running and turns back to look behind him. Thornhill glares down far behind. He looks through the shattered kitchen door. Father Death is gone. He starts back for the hunting shed.

Jason passes a towering crypt blazoned with the name of his great-great grandfather. The shadow of the tomb falls over him. Something shifts in the darkness.

A grim shape folds itself out of the crypt’s shadow. It flicks its wrist and produces that ugly knife. Jason lets out a gasp of shock. He feebly puts up a hand in self-defense. The shape slashes, carving open his wrist, tearing through tendon and vein and sending sprays of warm blood over the grass and the tombstones. Jason cries out in pain and surprise. The shape steps forward and steadies Jason with a gloved hand on the shoulder. It brings the blade back. Jason looks into the black, empty sockets of the mask. The knife sings through the air and then embeds itself deep into his chest, just below his sternum. He lets out a long, low gasp. A cry of protest and agony. The pain is immense. Like being punched by a prizefighter. The shape watches him collapse to his knees and then onto his back, blood cascading out over his shirt. It kneels down beside him. Lifts his chin with the tip of the knife.

“It was just a game, Jason.” Comes the voice. “You should have played along. Now, you _lose_.”

The blade smiles and whistles as it sweeps in a wide arc and opens his throat.

As he chokes on his own blood, Jason wishes his last sight on the earth was anything other than the hideous, mocking shriek of that cheap rubber mask.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally going to have both Cheryl and Jason buy the farm (heh) in the opening in keeping with the original film, but I'm not sure I'm capable of writing a multi-chapter Riverdale fic without Cheryl in it (and even if I was I wouldn't want to), so she cheats the reaper this time. Besides, now there's one more suspect. 
> 
> Anyway, Jason Blossom being dead is basically an integral part of Riverdale lore. 
> 
> In the next chapter we'll meet our heroes and start casting suspicion willy nilly.


	2. Dramatis Personae

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiya friends, here's chapter 2.
> 
> This is definitely the most immediate enthusiastic response (in number of kudos/reviews/etc) I've yet to get on a fanfic, considering I've only posted one chapter so far, so thank you for that, guys. I appreciate it. Reviews are my lifeblood. Even if I didn't respond, rest assured I read your comment at least twenty-five times. 
> 
> Please enjoy:

“Not dead. _Slaughtered_.” Kevin clarifies, dropping his voice. “I heard my dad saying they found him strung up in the maple syrup barn, covered in so much blood they thought he was wearing red clothes at first.”

“Maple syrup barn?” Archie asks, impressively missing the point in entire.

“They’re the Blossoms. They have a maple syrup everything.” Jughead says.

“God…” Betty breathes. “I can’t believe this.”

“How’s Polly doing?” Veronica asks, laying a hand on her friend’s arm.

Betty shakes her head. After the initial screaming and weeping had finally subsided late last night, Polly had slipped rapidly in the opposite direction and become a catatonic, half-alive thing. As far as Betty knows, she’s still in that state, lying motionless in bed, refusing to eat or drink. She sure as hell didn’t come to school today.

“Pretty bad. Of course. I just…who would _do_ something like that?”

“Who knows what evil lurks in the hearts of men?” Jughead quips.

“Come on, Jughead. Knock it off.” Veronica bids.

“Do they-does your dad have any idea who did it, Kevin?” Archie asks. Kevin shrugs.

“Not yet, but it’s only been a day. Something this bad, the FBI’s gonna be called in. So, brace yourselves, because this town is going to become media capital of the United States for the next few weeks.”

Betty thinks of her own mother, practically ecstatic over this gruesome happening. Nothing nearly so revolting or electrifying has happened in the town since the now-legendary Pangolin incident of ’83. Alice Cooper had practically leaped up and down for joy upon hearing of Jason’s death. As soon as that was out of her system, she’d quickly gotten about to brainstorming headlines.

“’ _Horror at Thornhill!’ No…Maple Syrup Bloodbath? Maple Syrup Massacre?”_

 _“Mom, a boy’s been_ murdered. _Your daughter’s_ boyfriend _.”_

_Alice places her hands on Betty’s shoulders._

_“Betty, sweetheart. Every cloud has its silver lining. In a day half the law-enforcement agencies and all of the media outlets in the country are going to descend on this town. This could be our breakout, honey.” And she’d_ smiled.

Betty shivers just a little at the memory.

“Have you guys talked to the cops yet?” Veronica inquires. Ever unflappable, even as she discusses a brutal murder investigation, she reaches into her bag and retrieves a little tin of spaghetti. “They’re questioning _everyone_.”

Archie nods, solemn.

“They talked to me already.”

“Me too.”

“What’d they ask?” Says Jughead. “Just because I want to know what to say when they inevitably try to pin this on me.”

Archie shrugs. Sighs.

Veronica eats some spaghetti.

“They just asked me how well I knew Jason. What was the last time I spoke to him, last thing he said. If I knew anyone who might have wanted to hurt him.”

Veronica snorts.

“Is that the word they used? ‘Hurt’?”

“I can think of lots of people who might have wanted to _hurt_ Jason.” Betty says. “But no one who would have wanted to do… _that_.”

“They also asked me if I liked to hunt.” Archie mumbles, as much to himself as to his friends. “Not sure what that was about.”

Kevin raises a hand, as if to clarify that it’s his turn to speak.

“Because uh…the body was…” He mimes slicing at the air. “You know…gutted. Like a deer or something.”

Veronica puts a hand to her mouth. To wipe away a spot of tomato sauce. Betty looks a little pale.

“This is _Halloween_ type stuff.” Veronica says. “Even in the city things almost never got this bad. Murder is one thing but…”

“John Carpenter or Rob Zombie?” Jughead asks.

“What?”

“Which _Halloween_?”

“Seriously, Jug?” Archie snaps.

“Sorry. 

“How do you think Cheryl’s going to take it?” Betty asks, and despite her less-than-pleasant relationship with the redhead, there’s real concern in her voice.

“I’m assuming she’s going to make Ophelia look like a model of healthy coping with loss and crisis.” Kevin quips.

“Okay.” Veronica starts. “I’ll say it. Who do you guys think did it?”

“Do you think it was someone from town? Someone we _know?”_ Archie asks, his voice grave, as if he had not even considered the possibility.

“Of course, Archie.” Jughead says. “For reference, try: every piece of murder fiction in existence.”

“Okay, but we can’t just start pointing fingers.” Archie asserts. “Or else we’ll all tear each other apart and the person who did it will never get caught.”

“I guess we’ll have to start by putting together a list of everyone in Riverdale unaccounted for last night.” Veronica suggests.

“So, like, literally every single person in the town.” Jughead clarifies.

“You wouldn’t want to think anyone you know is capable of that, but…” Kevin trails off. “Well, my dad says it was probably a big, strong guy. To take out Jason that easily, and then hang him up like that.”

“A big strong guy…” Jughead stares directly at his best friend. “Someone like Archie Andrews.” He says, voice husky and low, like a camp counselor telling a ghost story.

“Not funny, Juggy!” Betty protests.

Archie glares at his friend.

“But…” Kevin says. “Maybe someone on the football team isn’t so out of the realm of possibility? Maybe Jason had a feud with another player? Who knows?”

“I can’t really imagine gutting someone over a football play, Kevin.” Archie replies.

“There was one other thing, actually.” Kevin says, adopting Jughead’s campfire ghost-story voice. “The only other clue they’ve got. Jason got a phone call. Just before he died. They don’t know who from, though.”

Veronica almost shivers.

“God, that’s eerie. What the hell did I move to?”

“They ought to rename Sweetwater River to Crystal Lake.” Jughead mumbles.

The ancient PA system crackles to life. It cuts in and out a few times, before the meaningless buzzing finally coalesces into a human voice. “Elizabeth Cooper, please report to the principal’s office.” Comes Weatherbee’s command. Betty stands, sighing. She slings her backpack over her shoulder.

“Looks like your number’s up, Betts.” Jughead says, winking. She leans down and gives him a quick kiss, then heads off down the hall for her turn at interrogation by Riverdale’s finest.

* * *

 

“Your sister was Jason Blossom’s girlfriend, wasn’t she?” Sheriff Keller asks. He sits on the edge of Weatherbee’s desk, with one leg slung over the corner. The principal himself stands to her left, a dark shape looming down over her. Betty feels like the target of a ‘good principal-bad cop’ ploy.

“Yes, sir.” Betty answers.

“Does that mean you saw Jason a lot?”

“No, not really. Well, he came over once or twice but…well…my parents didn’t like him very much. He and Polly mostly hung out alone.”

Sheriff Keller nods, the creases in his face deepening.

“Okay. I’m going to need you to think really hard on this next question, alright Betty?” Before she can give an affirmative response, he opens his mouth again. “Did you notice anything strange at all from your sister in the days or weeks leading up to…the crime?”

Betty squints.

“Strange, how?”

“Anything odd she might have said. Any odd phone calls she might have received…or sent.”

“Phone calls?”

Keller sighs.

“Jason received a telephone call a few minutes before his death. Now, for all we know, it was entirely unrelated, but we aren’t certain yet.”

“Well…Polly’s not a suspect, is she?” Betty asks, going on the defensive. If Polly was a suspect, then that likely meant she was, too. Not that Polly would have had the mental or physical fortitude necessary to carry out the crime.

"Of course not.” Weatherbee assures her.

“We need to consider every possible angle.” Keller qualifies.

“I can’t remember any…strange phone calls. Especially not last night. Polly…she was supposed to be with Jason last night.” She admits. That wasn’t something she’d been eager to volunteer, either to her parents, friends, or the police. Keller leans in, clearly interested.

“She was?”

“Yeah…she was going to go visit him, but she got into an argument with my mother and stayed home. “

“A stroke of luck.” Weatherbee says, solemn. Keller nods in agreement.

“Okay, I have one more question, Betty, and I hope it isn’t upsetting.” Betty nods to indicate her preparedness. “Does your father…or mother…own any hunting knives?” Betty’s stomach turns a little bit. She knows that it’s just procedure. That the police are obligated to investigate each and every person connected even tenuously to the victim in a case as awful as this. Still, the thought that she or anyone she was close to could be considered a suspect in this horrorshow makes her sick. “It would be about seven inches long.” Keller goes on. “Probably a buck knife.”

“No…” Betty answers. “No, I don’t think so. Nobody in my family hunts.” Keller nods again, in that very lawman-esque ‘I won’t reveal whether I believe you or not’ way.

“Alright.”

Weatherbee turns to look at him.

“Is that all?”

“Yes. That should be it. For now.” Does he really have to tack on that last bit?

“Thank you, Betty.” Weatherbee says. He pats her on the shoulder. “You can go, now.”

Betty stands, slips on her backpack, and leaves without another word. Sheriff Keller’s last question runs through her mind again and again. A buck knife. She feels a little queasy. She has never been Jason Blossom’s biggest fan. He could be a jerk sometimes. But _no one_ deserves to die like that. Kevin has a penchant for exaggeration, but if it was even half as horrible as he says…

_Gutted._

She can’t imagine the last thing-the last _person-_ you ever saw to be some horrible figure cutting you to pieces with a hunting knife. Like big game. Like a piece of meat. And then to think that whoever did it could still be-probably _is_ -wandering around, free. Here, in town. Maybe here at Riverdale High.

Lunch is over and third period’s begun. Her friends won’t be in the lounge anymore. She heads, reluctantly, for her US Government class.

It’s fall, and already the days begin to shrink in length and brilliance. The ground is carpeted by curling, yellowed leaves. The sun is already beginning to weaken and waver in the sky. A cold draft blows in from Sweetwater River, sweeping in through the school’s open windows. A cruel idea strikes Betty: What if Polly was supposed to die with Jason? What if whoever killed him had counted on her being there, just as she was supposed to be? Could Polly be in danger? And what of Cheryl and the rest of the Blossom family? Could this happen again? Could be it was simply a random, singular act of furious sadism. But Betty is a natural-born journalist. She’s built to see connections and patterns, regardless of whether or not they’re truly there. Perhaps this is only the raising of the curtain. 

* * *

Betty soon begins to wish she’d just skipped AP Gov.

“See, if my sources are accurate, the guy who killed Jason knew what he was doing.” Dilton Doiley exposits to the class, taking advantage of their teacher’s infamous tardiness.

“What ‘sources’, Doiley?” Someone snorts. He ignores them.

“’Knew what he was doing’?” Asks a quizzical Chuck Clayton.

“Yeah, man. I don’t know if you’ve ever been hunting, but it’s not easy to gut something. And…from what I hear, this was a professional job. Not to mention the time and effort put into stringing him up from the rafters. And this was all done in little more than an hour.”

Betty’s stomach turns a little.

“Oh my God…” Veronica starts. “Did _you_ kill Jason?”

Dilton crosses his arms.

“No. If I had, believe me, I’d be bragging about it. _But,_ your killer, if you’re looking for him, just might be someone with skills similar to my own. A woodsman, if you will.”

“This is a rural town in upstate New York. That’s like 80% of the population.” Someone reminds the class.

“My point exactly.” Dilton goes on. “ _Everyone_ is a suspect.” He scans the room, his eyes narrowed to slits. “No one is above suspicion.”

“I am, right?” Veronica asks. “I mean…I’m from Manhattan. I’ve been in the woods twice and I almost died both times. The only thing I've ever skinned is my knee.”

Chuck snorts. “No one thinks a girl did it.”

“ _Excuse me_? I may not have killed Jason, but I could have easily done it if I wanted to.”

Chuck opens his mouth to respond, but Dilton cuts him off.

“Well, you both have points.” His attention swings to Veronica. “You don’t fit any of the expected profile.” He stalks towards her and thrusts his face towards the poor girl, like an interrogator. He studies her, as if searching for evidence in her rather unamused expression. “Which is exactly why no one would suspect you. Or” he pauses for dramatic effect. “Exactly why a smart person _would_.” Veronica doesn’t have time to respond to the charge before he turns on Betty. “Or what about harmless, quiet Betty Cooper? Whose sister was dating the victim? Who no one in their right mind would _ever_ believe capable of such horror.”

“You know, Dilton” Betty seethes. “These wild accusations make you sound a whole lot like someone trying to deflect suspicion right now.”

Before he can fire back, the door swings open.

“Sorry I’m late. Doiley, get in your damn seat.” Barks a rather flustered government teacher.

No one really thinks much about Federalism for the rest of the class period.

* * *

 

“You’re leaving? _Now?_ ” Betty demands, incredulous.

“Sweetheart, we can’t just throw our schedules in the garbage because of one unfortunate occurrence” Alice reasons.

“That ‘unfortunate occurrence’ being the murder and mutilation of your daughter’s boyfriend?”

“Betty” Hal begins, his voice terse and even. “It’s important for the future of the _Register_. I know this is a very inopportune time, but there just isn’t room for flexibility on this. You know we’ve been scheduled to attend this conference for almost a year.”

Betty’s mouth twitches as she struggles to find words capable of expressing her outrage and disapproval. She isn’t even particularly surprised, but she’s still furious. Of _course_ her parents rank a journalism conference higher than their daughter’s psychic wellbeing and the conclusion of a murder on their list of priorities. But it’s almost comical. ‘We’ve already talked with Polly about it’, her father had assured her. What had they said? ‘Hey, we’re sorry your boyfriend was carved up like a prize pig, but we gotta fly?’ Unbelievable.

“That article we published on the…occurrence sold more copies than anything we’ve put out in years. We might finally make a name for ourselves outside of Riverdale, and this is our chance.” Alice explains. “You want that, don’t you?”

“I…you know what? Have fun! I’ll be here doing your jobs for you.”

“Hey!” Hal raises his voice. “Don’t speak to us that way.”

“I’m gonna go see how Polly’s doing.” Betty huffs. And she storms off up the stairs, her parents’ grim presence hovering at her back.

* * *

And that had been that. Alice and Hal Cooper had packed up and gone off to the city without a moment’s hesitation. Betty stood at her window and watched the car pull out and creep away, practically shivering with rage. And maybe, if she was to be entirely honest with herself, a little bit of fear. She’s long past the point where she believes her parents invincible heroes capable of overcoming any evil, but there’s still that primal, base part of her mind that refuses to think anything _truly_ bad can happen while they’re around.

And now they’re gone. While Riverdale turns into Hinterkaifeck. Betty grumbles a little to herself.

Outside, night has come at last. The dull reds and yellows of the dying sun are finally extinguished, and the moon leaps into the sky. The tops of the trees shake in an autumn breeze, curling and shedding. Betty watches the dead leaves bounce and skip along the road in the wind, little flashes of cracked brown and orange.

Polly seemed a little better today, thank God. She actually came down for dinner (which Betty, ever the dutiful sister, prepared). She even smiled once or twice. She still went to bed three hours before nightfall, and won’t be back to normal for a good long while (if she ever is), but it’s a start, at least. Betty throws herself back onto her bed. She cranes her head and stares out of her window, towards the dark shape of the Andrews’ house. She feels a flash of nostalgia for the days she would spend longingly gazing after the redheaded boy next door. Who would have thought she would have ended up with his polar opposite in Jughead Jones, instead? Life is funny like that.

You spend years lusting after the clean-cut lad one house down from yours, and end up going out with the grim-faced loner from the wrong side of town.

She finds herself wondering if Jason Blossom thought, in his last moments, that life was a little unpredictable sometimes.

The ringing of her cell phone snaps her out of her reverie.

Only, it’s not her cell phone. Her cell is on her nightstand, right next to her head, but it’s perfectly still and silent. It’s not the house phone, either, and it takes Betty a good two seconds to recognize Polly’s cell. She lets it ring once more. Twice more.

Finally, she gets up.

Betty follows the incessant tone downstairs, to where Polly’s abandoned her phone on the coffee table in the living room. She hasn’t exactly been keen to pick up the phone in the past few days. Especially not after Keller and his guys came by and sapped what little strength she had left. They’d prodded and demanded and all but come out and said ‘we think there’s a good chance you killed Jason’. Betty’s face burns just thinking of it. Who did they think they were?

 She picks up her sister’s cell. There’s no name. Just a number. Hmm. It best not be someone from the police station. Betty almost just lets it ring, but then decides against it. There’s always an off chance it’s important, after all. She slides the prompt to the right and the conversation begins. She puts the phone to hear ear. There’s silence on the other end. Except, maybe, for the muffled sound of someone breathing.

“Hello?” She finally asks.

 "Hello, Polly.” Comes the voice, grim and even. And unfamiliar.

“Oh, this isn’t Polly, sorry. It’s-“

“Really? Then why do you have her phone?”

“It’s…it’s Betty.” She clarifies. “Her sister. Polly’s not available right now, sorry.”

“Why not?”

“She’s tired. Sleeping.”

“Oh, of course, of course. It’s been quite a long week for her, hasn’t it?”

Betty frowns. There is far too much levity in his words. Almost as if he’s making light of the tragedy. Her lips tighten.

“Yes.” She spits back. “It has.”

“Well, that’s alright. You’re the next best thing, I suppose.” The voice sighs.

Betty reels a little bit. Whoever this is, they’ve got no sense of good taste.

“Look, do you want me to take a message or what?”

“I think Polly, and all of Riverdale, got my message loud and clear.” The voice hisses, charged with vicious pride.

Betty’s stomach tightens up. She suddenly remembers Sheriff Keller’s words. Jason received a phone call only a few minutes before he died. Only a few minutes. How long does it take for everything to go to hell? She smacks her lips.

“What did you say?”

“You heard me, Betty, sweetheart, didn’t you?”

“Look” she snaps, trying to keep her words and voice even. She’s not afraid. She’s not. This isn’t scary. It’s just some heartless asshole playing a prank. Not like Riverdale has any shortage of those. “Who is this? Because this isn’t funny, and making light of everything that’s happened doesn’t make you cool, just pathetic.” She rails. Despite her best efforts, her voice cracks on the last syllable. From the other end comes the unmistakable sound of dry, calm laughter.

“Oh, Betty...You’re not _scared_ are you?”

“No! I’m-“

“ _Jason_ sure was.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been rewatching the Scream movies and I've been forced to consider:
> 
> Why the hell does whatever company puts out the 'Father Death' costume in universe keep selling it? Ditto for the voice changers. You'd think after no less than seven different serial killers have put it on and gone on killing sprees, publicity concerns would pressure them to withdraw the damn thing, but I guess not.
> 
> Also, in Scream 2, the audience at Stab, which is in-universe based off of true events (recent events), are wearing ghostface masks and cheering on the killer in the movie. It's like if people went to a biopic about Richard Ramirez in 'Night Stalker' costumes and then rooted for him throughout the movie. What the fuck.


	3. Rising Action: You got no one you can trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things getting real now.
> 
> Remember to feed me reviews so I feel better about writing this instead of studying ._.

“I got a weird phone call last night.”

“What kind of weird? Like…”

“It was the person…” Betty pauses. “The person who called was…they were…speaking like they were the ones that killed Jason. It was probably just a prank call but…I don’t know, it freaked me out.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Veronica assures her. “Just some creep with a stupid sense of humor.”

Betty stares out of the frosted window of Pop’s, into the empty street beyond. A few early Halloween decorations, plastic skeletons and papers ghosts, sway in the breeze.

“Yeah. I’m sure.”

“I mean…what kind of killer would be dumb enough to call his victims ahead of time, anyway? Phone records are...things that exist."

“I think BTK did.” Jughead mumbles.

“What?”

“BTK?”

Both girls give him a blank stare. He stirs his milkshake and sighes.

“BTK? Bind Torture Kill? Dennis Rader? Used to send letters and materials to the police?”

“Okay, first of all, _ew_?” Veronica exclaims. “Why do you know that? Second of all, do you really think this is the best time to bring that _up_?”

“Sorry.” He mumbles in his sheepish way. “But Veronica’s right, Betty.” He assures her. “I’m sure it was nothing.”

“Yeah. I’m starting to feel not-so-good about staying in the house alone with Polly, though, while my parents are gone. I don’t know.”

“Hey. You can stay with us for a few days if you want.” Veronica offers.

“I’d offer, but I don’t think I could fit both of you into my hovel at the Twilight.” Jughead laments.

“Thanks, guys.”

"I hear Keller’s going to set up a curfew.” Jughead informs them, sounding a little disappointed. “Until they catch him. Or her. Or a suitable scapegoat.” He tacks on. “So, you know what that means.”

“We have to start hanging out earlier?” Betty suggests.

“We have to start breaking curfew?” Veronica ventures.

Jughead chuckles.

“Amazing.”

A moment later, the door to Pop’s swings open with the jingle of bells. The diner turns as one to appraise the new patron.

“Oh, shit.” Jughead breathes.

Cheryl Blossom shuffles into the restaurant, looking less than composed. She seats herself at the bar, red hair hanging in tangles over her face. She mumbles something unintelligible to the titular proprietor. He returns, a little faster than usual, with a plain vanilla milkshake.

Jughead turns back to his friends.

“You know” he starts. “What if Cheryl did it?”

Betty wrinkles her brow and shakes her head.

“Nah. Cheryl would have killed herself before she killed Jason.” She says.

“Maybe.” He concedes. “But that’s why no one would suspect her. Well, besides the fact that rich people are above the law.”

“Stranger things have happened, I guess.” Veronica opines.

“Think about it. There’d be no evidence of an intruder at Thornhill, right?” He says, his voice a whisper. “Because she lives there. The cops would _never_ look too hard at her. Perfect crime.”

“You make a solid case.” Veronica says.

Betty’s about to say something in Cheryl’s defense, but that quickly becomes unnecessary. Cheryl herself materializes like Jason (Voorhees, not Blossom). Her hand snakes out and snatches up the knife included with Jughead’s set of silverware. She raises the blade and holds it perilously close to the boy’s now wide-eyed face.

“How do I know _you_ didn’t do it?” She seethes.

“Uhh..”

“Maybe you saw one too many Tobe Hooper movies and your fiction-addled little mind just couldn’t take it anymore.” She presses the knife into the material of his beanie cap, twisting the blade and catching a few threads on the tip. Jughead begins to visibly perspire. “So maybe you got yourself a knife, like this one.” She waves the gleaming blade to and fro before his eyes. He follows it unconsciously, like a child and the doctor’s light. Cheryl flips it around and jabs the handle into his chest. He gasps. Betty and Veronica do their best to disappear into the leather of their seats. “And you cut my brother up and hanged him from the rafters.” She pronounces, voice trembling. She drops the knife on the table in front of him. Turns to the two girls. “Why don’t you think on _that_?”

Having said so, she storms out of the diner.

“Did she even finish her milkshake?” Veronica asks, shaken.

“I’m impressed she knows who Tobe Hooper is.” Jughead says, as he restores his shattered nerves and adjusts his beanie.

“That was…absolutely terrifying.” Betty admits.

“She isn’t exactly throwing off suspicion, I’ll tell you that.”

The bell jangles again. This time, the entire diner starts.

This time, thankfully, it’s a far less vicious member of the ginger tribe.

“Hey, guys.” Archie Andrews says. “What’d I miss?” 

* * *

 

A few minutes later, deaf to Archie’s protests that he ‘just got here’, the booth clears out. Night begins to fall.

The last rays of sunlight are flickering out as Betty and Jughead begin their long, meandering walk in the general direction of the Cooper house. They stroll along the western strip of the town park, close enough that they can hear the gentle whispering of the Sweetwater River on its eternal course. A half moon hovers low in the sky.

“I was pretty sure Cheryl was actually going to murder me.”

“You did basically accuse _her_ of murder.”

“Sure” he concedes. “But the answer to that isn’t acting like a murderer.”

“Maybe just…try to be a bit more tactful, huh?”

“Noted.” They round a bend in the road, which shadows a dip in the ground and the steep slope of a hill down into a dark thicket of woods clustered towards the southern quarter of the park. Betty stops. She stares down into the darkness, seeing nothing but devoting it her rapt attention nonetheless. “Everything okay, Betts?”

“Yeah…I’m just…I know, you guys are right that it was probably just a prank call. But…”

“What if it wasn’t?”

“Yeah.”

Jughead slides an arm around his girlfriend’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry. Something like this doesn’t go unanswered. They’ll catch whoever did it soon enough. I promise.”

“Yeah.” She says, with much more conviction in her voice than in her words. “I’m sure.” She forces a smile. “Let’s go.”

They resume their walk. They hardly get a few more steps before Jughead’s phone rings. Betty almost asks him not to answer it. She decides against that. It’s just being silly. No need to bog anyone else down with her worries. Jughead slides the cell from his pocket and answers.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Jughead.”

“Who’s this?”

Betty’s gut chills.

“A friend. Enjoying your walk?”

Jughead stops. Betty’s heart throbs in her chest.

“How do you…who is this, seriously?”

“Jughead” Betty pleads. “Hang up.”

He ignores her.

“This is your director speaking.” The voice hisses. “And you better look sharp, because the cameras are rolling.”

Jughead turns in a small circle, searching the growing darkness. There’s nothing and no one there. Betty draws closer to him, and he to her.

“Am I about to get punk’d?” Jughead asks, the tremor in his voice betraying his attempt at resolve.

“Just like Jason was.”

Jughead swallows.

“So you’re the one who killed Jason, huh?”

“He had a small part, but it was an important one. You’ll see. There’s no movie without him.”

“Jughead, _hang up_.” Betty demands, more forceful this time. Again he ignores her. She makes a swipe for the phone. He pulls away.

“I hate to break it to you, but there’s not going to be any movie. If you-“

“Sure there is. I’ve got such a perfect cast of characters.” The voice purrs.

“We’re not characters!” Betty snaps, losing her cool.

“Please. Coming from the pretty blonde girl next door with a dark side and the brooding loner from the wrong side of the tracks with a heart of gold. You couldn’t be bigger clichés if you tried. If this were a cheap teen drama, you’d have it made.” The voice pauses. “Unfortunately for you, this is a horror film.”

“Should I call the police?” Betty mouths.

Jughead shakes his head ‘no’.

“Well, I think you need to hire a new writer because your lines…leave a lot to be desired.”

A chuckle on the other end.

“So witty. I suppose we’ll see how witty you are when I slash your pretty girlfriend’s throat and drown her in her own blood!” The voice hisses.

That gets to him.

“Fuck you, you damn coward.” He hisses. “If you even-“

“Lay a finger on her? And you tell me you aren't an ambulatory cliche. Don’t worry, you can rest easy for the time being.”

“Wh-“

“You’ve got a big part, Jughead. The both of you, so I need you kicking for now. It’s only the first act.” The voice drawls. “Some of your friends, of course, might not be so lucky.”

Jughead manages to keep himself from shaking, Betty notices. He presses the phone closer to his ear. She leans in to listen, as much as she knows she shouldn’t.

“What friends?” She demands.

“Well, see, the movie’s just kicking into gear. This is what they call ‘rising action’. Right now we’re at the part where the simple but big-hearted redhead meets his bloody, premature end.”

“Archie.” Betty says, unconsciously. Before Jughead can say anything, she’s already taking off down the street at full speed in the direction of his house. Jughead, noticing quickly, follows on her heels, keeping the phone pressed to his ear. “Keep him talking", Betty whispers.

“What’s Archie Andrews ever done to you?” Jughead huffs as he runs.

“You’re a movie buff, aren’t you? You should know it’s not about what he’s done it’s about what he is. And right now, he’s the perfect victim. The perfect plot device.” The line goes dead. Jughead swears and jams the phone into his pocket. Betty’s ahead of him by a good few yards. He leans his head into the wind and charges after her.

* * *

 

Archie Andrews, blissfully unaware, is at the moment in the midst of translating a new composition into music. He’s not particularly satisfied with this one. It’s a little cheesy, even for him. He might just scrap it, really. But he owes it to the song and to himself to at least give it a few practice plays. So he does. He’s got his headphones tucked snugly over his ears, rendering him impervious to the world at large.

His father’s out, clearing up something at work, leaving him home alone. Maybe Jason’s death should have him a little shaken, but he’s really not all that worried (even if a few people have made tasteless jokes that the killer’s probably looking to wipe out the handsome ginger football player demographic). In the Cooper house next door, Polly’s home alone too. Betty’s asked him to keep something of a general eye on her, so he’s taken to glancing across the gap between the two houses regularly for any signs of something strange. True, his cursory surveillance probably wouldn’t detect anything seriously wrong anyway (especially considering the headphones), but it’s the principle of the thing that matters, right?

He plays a few tentative cords. Shakes his head. No good. He replaces one with another. Before he _really_ gets into it, he glances over at the Cooper house, again. He catches a glimpse of Polly entering her bedroom and feels a little creepy, so he quickly averts his gaze.

Maybe he hears a faint, distant drumming as he really delves into his music, but he pays it little mind.

Then his bedroom door bursts open and he’s confronted with a dark figure wielding a knife. His heart stops. He’s about to rip off his headphones, throw his guitar to the floor, and ready himself for a fight when another figure appears beside the first, this one blonde and panicked, but similarly wielding a blade.

“Uh…Betty? Jughead?”

“Jesus Christ, Archie!” Jughead gasps, sounding like he’s been running very far very fast. “Are you okay?”

“Thank God.” Betty moans.

“I’m…fine. Wh…why do you have kitchen knives?”

“We thought you were…” Betty starts. She calms down and drops her voice. “In danger.” She finishes, clear enough that she’d intended something far more graphic originally.

“Why?”

“It’s a long story.” Jughead says. “Just…we should get out of the house, okay?”

“Why?”

“Archie, shut up and come on.” Betty snaps, exhausted.

Archie shrugs and stands. He sets his guitar aside and follows his friends out of his house and into the night outside.

“Okay. Will you explain now?”

“We got…a phone call from the same guy that called me the other day.” Betty starts.

“The prank caller?” Archie asks.

“I don’t think it’s a prank caller, Archie.” Jughead says, voice grave.

“He…made us think he was going to…that you were in danger.” Betty says, censoring herself for the second time.

Archie stares back at his house, which suddenly seems a lot eerier.

“Well-“ He starts. Then his cell rings. Betty and Jughead develop identical expressions of abject horror. It might almost be funny, out of context. “Guys. Calm down.” He pleads. He answers the call.

“Hello?”

“I have a message for your friend, Archie.” Comes the gravelly, liquid voice.

“Who is it?” Jughead asks.

Archie shrugs. It does little to assuage his friends’ fear.

“Ask him what it feels like to get punk’d.”

“He asks…what it feels like to get punk’d?” Archie relays.

Betty casts a glance towards her house. Just in time to see the dark, black-robed figure in the shrieking rubber mask leering down at her from her own bedroom. Her first attempt at speech comes out a strangled cry of horror. Archie and Jughead follow her gaze and unleash similar sounds of dismay. The figure waves, a big ugly knife in its hand.

Sheriff Keller’s words come back to Betty, entirely unwelcome.

_A hunting knife. Probably about seven inches long._

She’s held for a moment in the stupor of fear. Then the thought of guts and screaming and blood and death and _Polly_ propel her into action. She all but teleports to her front door, banging upon it and screaming at the top of her lungs. Archie and Jughead follow suit, and soon all three are pounding on the door and shrieking. After some three seconds of this-nearly an eternity considering the circumstances-Archie breaks off. He scours the front porch until he discovers a suitably smooth rock, about the size of a baseball if a little larger, waiting for him in the base of a potted plant. He takes aim at one of the tall windows flanking the door, pulls his arm back, and hurls the stone through the glass with all of his might. Before Betty and Jughead can make sense of the shattering crash, he’s leaped through the broken window, ignoring the glass biting at his wrists and ankles and the blood soon leaking in rivulets down his shirt and pants. He unlocks the door for his friends, but does not wait to join them before darting off into the house.

“Archie! Wait!” Jughead cries. But then Betty’s following him and he’s left standing alone in the living room, feeling rather cowardly. “Goddammit.” He mumbles to himself before throwing himself likewise into action.

“Polly!” Betty cries, to no answer. Her eyes grow wet with tears of terror. “Polly!” She barges into her sister’s room, to find nothing. No blood and no signs of struggle, but also no Polly. She steps into the room, lightly. Behind her, Archie continues further down the hall, towards Betty’s own room, where they’d spotted the figure through the window. Jughead follows, leaving Betty alone. “Polly?” Something creaks. Betty whips her head around to focus upon her sister’s closet. The door stands slightly ajar. Fear claws at that spot in her chest just below the ribs. “Polly?” Did something move in the shadows? She steps back from the closet. The back of Betty’s knees knock against her sister’s bedpost. She grips the corner of the mattress so tightly her fingernails rip through the cloth and cotton. She feels dizzy, heart and head on the verge of failing. “Polly?” She tries once more, beginning to despair.

“Try again.”

Then the closet door bursts open and the figure lunges out at her, knife in hand. She spills to the side, screaming “Jughead!” as she falls. The killer, clad in that stupid ‘Father Death’ costume a thousand kids wear each Halloween, strikes at her. The blow goes wide, the tip of the knife catching her sleeve and tearing through the skin of Betty’s upper arm. She cries out in pain. Father Death stumbles and nearly falls upon its own knife, but rights itself and gathers for another attack. Betty grabs hold of a snow-globe on Polly's nightstand and hurls it at her assailant. It catches the figure in the chest, and shatters, spilling liquid and flecks of fake styrofoam snow across the black robe. Father Death advances, undaunted, leaping through the air at its prey. Betty scrambles to the side, and the killer is inconvenienced for a brief moment as its knife sticks itself into the plaster of the bedroom walls. Just as it’s freed its ugly weapon again, Jughead appears at the room’s threshold.

“Hey!” he shouts.

The figure pauses, appraising the new threat.

“Jughead! Betty!” Comes Archie’s shout from the hall.

The killer weighs options. Three on one aren’t good odds. Father Death charges at Jughead, laying a shoulder into his chest and slashing at him as it passes. The blade just barely nicks his chest. Then the killer is out into the hall and fleeing from the house.

It takes Betty a moment to process the reality of the last minute or so. Jughead embraces her. She hugs him back, tight enough to restrict his breathing. Archie steps into the room, breathing hard. He rushes to his friends and throws himself into the hug. They spend a moment like that, basking in each other’s energy and in the fact that they’re _alive_.

Then-“Betty?” comes the voice, soft and meek.

Polly Cooper emerges from a bathroom cabinet. She creeps out slowly, cautiously, like a rabbit exiting his warren upon the departure of a fox.

“Polly!” Betty cries out, nearly delirious with relief. Her sister shuffles across the hall and into the room, blonde hair plastered to her face with tears, clothes a little a torn, but otherwise intact. They draw her into the group embrace, as happy tears begin to flow. First is Polly herself, who buries her face into Betty’s shoulder with deep, heaving sobs. Then, to everyone’s surprise, is Archie, who makes a half-hearted attempt to hide his own tears before allowing them to flow freely. “I’m so glad you’re okay” Betty weeps.

Finally, even Jughead Jones fails to maintain his resolve, and the tears come.

* * *

 

“Yeah, we _saw_ him but it didn’t do us much good, considering he was wearing a _mask_.” Jughead pronounces to a grim-faced Sheriff Keller. The sheriff nods.

“So you didn’t see _anything_ distinctive or identifying?”

“Besides that…terrifying Edvard Munch Scream mask? No.”

“Height? Weight?”

He shrugs.

“Looked like…an average height guy, I guess? It’s a bit hard to tell when he’s coming at you with a knife.”

“How’s your wound?” He gestures to the slight, shallow gash in his chest. It’s nothing, medically speaking, except painful. He hadn’t even had to go to the hospital, just receive a quick bandaging from the EMTs.

“It’s fine.”

“Not too bad, huh?”

“No. Just a flesh wound.” He immediately curses himself for quoting Monty Python, even if it was unintentional.

“I’d say you got pretty lucky.” Keller says.

 Jughead’s eyes narrow.

“Yeah. Lucky.”

“You must have pretty good reflexes. Dodge the guy like that.”

“I didn’t dodge-what are you trying to say,  _sheriff?"_

“Nothing”

“No? It sure sounds like you are. Actually, it sounds like you're accusing me of something. What-do you think I cloned and then stabbed myself? Is that it?”

“Look, Jughead. The first victim was Jason Blossom. I think it’s safe to say you two didn’t get on very well.”

“Yeah, he used to pick on me when I was younger. I hadn’t even spoken to him for like a year before this. I sure as hell wasn’t about to go cut him into ribbons over middle school rivalries.”

“And the second-attempted, thankfully-was your girlfriend’s sister. We just have to investigate all personal connections. You know that’s our job.”

“Funny, I thought your job was catching criminals, not trying to pin their murders on high school kids.”

“I-“

“Are we done? Because I don’t have anything else to tell you. About tonight or anything else.”

Sheriff Keller nods. He fixes Jughead with a suspicious, careful look.

“Yes, son. You’re free to go.”

* * *

Betty’s wound is a little worse than Jughead’s. It still didn’t warrant an overnight hospital stay, but she did have to undergo a doctor’s examination. The cut was cleaned, bandaged, and she was furnished with some medication for pain. It hurts to move her arm a little, but that’s supposed to fade within a few days. It will make a cool scar, she tells herself.

Polly is entirely unharmed, physically-she’d reported that the killer had attacked her in the hallway. He’d managed to tear her clothes up some, but that was all. She’d hidden in the bathroom cabinet, but believed he had been on the verge of finding her when Betty and her friends arrived.

Yes, she’s physically fine, but her psyche is another story. The trauma of Jason’s death had been enough, this was simply shattering. Betty hopes, but dares not expect, she’ll be able to recover.

Betty meets Veronica outside of the hospital (she’d come as soon as she’d heard of the near-tragedy, of course). After a long hug, she asks: “is that offer to stay at your house still open?”

“Oh God…Betty, of course. Come tonight. My mom and I will get everything ready for you and Polly. Don’t lift a finger.”

“Thanks, V.”

* * *

A hot shower, some takeout, and many hugs and reassurances from her friend later, Betty’s shattered nerves are finally beginning to repair themselves. She can’t forget her near evisceration only earlier that night, but can at least put it into perspective. She’s alive. She’s going to stay alive. She’s here with her good friend in a warm apartment with a round the clock security guard and a gate. Polly's asleep in the room next door. Everything will be-in the long run-okay. Betty and Veronica settle in to watch some dumb romantic comedy they aren’t even sure the title of.

Betty leans her head on her friend’s shoulder.

After a few minutes, she asks: “Veronica, why is this happening?”

It’s a heartbreakingly simple and impossible question.

“I don’t know, Betty. I’m so, so sorry. But it’ll be over soon. They’ll get this guy. And you’re safe here.” She smiles at the forlorn blonde. “That’s a Veronica Lodge promise.”

Then Veronica’s phone rings.

“Don’t ans-“

But it’s too late. Veronica’s already picked up and responded.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Veronica. How’s Betty’s arm?”

The hideously familiar voice floating from the receive flings Betty through a gauntlet of emotions. First, horrid disbelief. Then, the same abject terror she’d felt as that awful figure charged at her, knife gleaming. Finally, burning, nigh inhuman rage.

“Who is th-“ Veronica starts. God, Betty’s tired of hearing those words. She curls her fingers around the phone and snatches it from her friend’s hands. Veronica gasps in shock.

“I’m going to kill you myself.” Betty snarls into the cell phone. Her voice is cool and even. There’s hardly a trace of fear in it. Veronica watches her friend with something between concern and surprise, eyebrows knitting. “Coward. Leave me and my friends alone.”

“Not just yet. We’re not finished. The game i-“

“You and your game can go straight to hell. And I’ll send you there.” Betty growls. Then she terminates the call and hands the phone back to Veronica without another word.

“Wow. That was…badass.”

“I’m going to make this asshole regret the day he put on that stupid costume.”

“We.”

“What?”

“ _We’ll_ make him regret. All of us.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whooooo
> 
> who could it be
> 
> whoooo so spooky
> 
> Oh btw Betty and Jughead got into Archie's house through a window and grabbed knives from his kitchen.
> 
> A good writer would have remembered to put that in the story but hey here we are.


	4. Reel 2: School's out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome back rotten readers, for another gleefully ghoulish helping of hideous, spinechilling storytelling!
> 
> /Cryptkeeper 
> 
> I just saw that story about how Season 2's really playing up the horror angle and I'm hyped as fuck. 
> 
> God I want to read some more EC comics now.

Kevin guides Betty through the halls of Riverdale High the next morning, taking it upon himself to shield her from the morbid curiosity and tasteless humor of their fellow students. The teenagers that throng rooms and halls split apart like the Red Sea to allow them passage, watching all the while like bloodsport spectators.

Dilton Doiley shrinks away like a frightened rabbit when Betty passes by. Chuck Clayton snickers and makes an unintelligible and undoubtedly crude comment.

By the time lunch mercifully rolls around, Betty’s become more an object of curiosity than a human being. She meets her friends in the school’s lounge, adjacent to the cafeteria, as she always does and always has since before Riverdale became the town that dreaded sundown.

Jughead greets her with a hug and says: “I’ve had five different people ask if I’m _sure_ I didn’t do it. Like…what?”

“Yeah, maybe coming in to school today wasn’t the best idea, Betty.” Kevin says.

“No, no.” Veronica contradicts. “Best to tear the bandaid off. Trust me, high schoolers have the memory of goldfish, they’ll all forget about it in a week or two. Well…maybe.”

They eat a quiet, uneasy lunch. Every sputter of the school’s ancient AC or crackle of the loudspeaker pricking at that center of primal fear at the back of their minds.

It’s a few minutes before the bell rings to signal third period that Cheryl makes her appearance, storming into the lounge and sending lesser beings into paroxysms of terror. She sidles up to Betty, unbowed by the steely glares of her friends.

“What do _you_ want, Cheryl?” Jughead growls.

“Nothing from _you_ , Madman Marz.” She snaps back, shortly putting him on the back foot. “I want to talk to Betty.” Cheryl squeezes into a semi-existent gap between Betty and her boyfriend much to the latter’s chagrin.

“About what?” Betty inquires. She leans away unconsciously.

“I just wanted to say…I’m sorry about what happened.” Everyone balks at that. ‘Wow’ Kevin mouths. Veronica does a weird sort of half-blink half-eye roll.

“Oh…well…thanks, Cheryl.”

“And…this is the son of a bitch that killed Jason. I wanna see him hang as much as you do. If you ever need anything-within reason-I’m probably in the general vicinity. As far as…this business goes, you can count me as an ally.” She turns to Jughead, most of the patience and sincerity going out of her face. “And I’m sorry for threatening you with a knife. I guess. It was fun though.”

“Gee, thanks, Cheryl. It means a lot.”

“Anyway. That’s all. I’ll leave you in peace.” She says. Cheryl takes a moment to get up, and keeps her baleful stare fixed on Betty. Betty is inclined to ask if she’s sure there isn’t anything else she wishes to say. But her friends are watching them intently and the situation is quickly growing more uncomfortable, so she says nothing except:

“Thanks, Cheryl.”

The redhead nods, smiles, stands, and leaves.

“Sus-pi-cious.” Kevin sings once her footsteps and malevolent aura fade. 

“Come on, Kev.” Betty says. “She’s just being sincere.”

“Is she biologically _capable_ of sincerity?” Jughead questions.

Betty elbows him gently in the ribs.

“I don’t know, guys.” Veronica says. “I fall into the ‘that was pretty suspicious’ camp.”

“Speaking of mysterious redheads, where’s Archie?” Kevin inquires.

“He’s with Ms. Grundy, I think. You know, music.” Jughead responds.

“Eh…this might sound kind of weird, but I’m getting cagey about you guys being out of my sight.” Kevin says. “Like if I look away for ten seconds one of you is going to end up Jason Blossom’d.”

“Wow, Kevin. What a tactful way to put it.”

* * *

 

It isn’t until after school that Betty discovers that, yes, Cheryl did indeed have more to say.

“Hey!” Cheryl accosts her as she exits the sprawling brick shell of Riverdale High that evening. Betty nearly perishes of fright there and then, certain the killer has come to claim his due. She lets out a little squeal of terror before Cheryl jabs her in the side and snaps: “calm down, it’s only me.”

Betty has the inclination to say ‘that doesn’t make me want to calm down’ but decides against it.

“God, don’t do that!” She barks instead. “You scared me to death!”

“Fine. Yeah. Whatever. Sorry. I had more to say earlier, but I didn’t want to say anything in front of your praetorian guards-I mean, friend group.”

“Wh-“

“I got a phone call last night.”

Betty’s stomach turns. Assuming she survives this ordeal, she’s not sure she’ll ever be able to hear the words ‘phone call’ without wanting to heave. She just might chuck her cell into the garbage. She doesn’t even want to ask her next question. But she has to.

“From-“

“Who do you _think_? Sort of grainy voice? Sarcastic? Makes a lot of horror movie references?”

“God…” Betty threads her fingers through her hair. “Yeah. Cheryl, you need to tell the police. Tell Sheriff Keller.”

Cheryl shakes her head.

“Why? No-I want to talk to you. You’ve seen him, right? The killer?”

“I-saw a costume. That’s all. But so did Jughead and Archie and Polly.”

Cheryl rolls her eyes.

“Yeah, but you’re the only one I don’t find suspicious as hell.”

Instead of flattered, Betty feels almost offended. It’s nice to be thought innocent of murder but it’s not so nice to be thought so harmless and incapable as to be entirely beyond suspicion. But now’s not the time for all that.

“Wh-why?”

“Come on. You didn’t kill anyone. I doubt you could if you wanted to. What I want to know is-do you have any idea who it is? At all? Suspicions? Hunches?” Cheryl leans in, eyes narrowed, voice gravely, conspiratorial.

Betty doesn’t want to think about it. She really doesn’t want to put the face of anyone she knows, even in passing, to that horrible shadow in the white mask. Doesn’t want to imagine there’s a real person behind it. Better to pretend its some kind of golem brought to life by the combined energy of too many goddamn scary movies than to accept there’s a real flesh and blood agent behind this horror.

“I…I don’t know.”

“Come on. I’ve already got a list of suspects thirty names long.” Betty balks at that.

“List of…who?”

“Let’s see…Dilton Doiley, Principal Weatherbee, Sheriff Keller, Midge Klump, Chuck Clayton, Archie, Jughead’s dad, Jughead, Polly, Pop Tate, your parents, Veronica, Ms. Grundy, my parents-“

“Okay, okay. Stop. Your list consists of everyone in Riverdale. I mean...your own _parents_?” Betty asks, awestruck.

Cheryl shrugs.

“Sure. Stranger things have happened. Except I doubt either of them are familiar with any movies made since 1975. Frankly though, you're right. The list is getting so long as to be entirely worthless. Which is why I want your help. If you can offer me any.”

Betty crosses her arms. The sun begins to sink beneath the horizon. The sky slowly goes dark. A stiff breeze blows in from the river. Brittle, crumbling leaves bounce along the streets and sidewalks in the wind. She shivers a bit. The school is quick clearing out, and they’re all but alone. The same sense of vulnerability, of being stalked, that had possessed her last night during the attack returns.

“Well…” She finally works up the courage to say. “How do I know it’s not _you_?”

Cheryl’s face flits through a wide range of responsive emotions. The first naturally, is rage. Next comes shock. Then hurt. Finally, stony, stalwart rigidity.

“You don’t. Except, I think you and everyone else in this town know I would _never_ have hurt Jason. Much less _killed_ him.” Even as she says it, her voice rises, reaching a brittle peak but stopping just short of tears.

Betty sighs. Of course. Ridiculous. Silly of her to ever suspect such a thing. But who knows anymore?

“I can’t help you. All I can say is that I, Jughead, Archie, and Polly were attacked together the other night. So it couldn’t be any of us. You can strike four people off of your list for sure.”

Cheryl nods. She stares off into the thickening darkness over Betty’s shoulder.

“Maybe. I won’t rule anything out.”

“Well, unless you think people can somehow be in two places at on-“

“I said I won’t rule _anything_ out.”

* * *

Soon after the girl’s conversation is brought to an end and they both start off for home (alone, in defiance of curfew and Sheriff Keller's stipulation to travel in groups), another pair takes their leave of one another. The school already sits empty, the hallways eerie and quiet. The intermittent sounds of malfunctioning appliances or groaning infrastructure reverberate through the old building.

Archie is, to be quite honest, glad to get home. He concludes another post-class lesson with resident music teacher Geraldine Grundy, and slips his guitar into its case, slinging it over his shoulder.

“Bye, Miss Grundy.”

“Bye, Archie.” She bids her favorite student farewell. “Stay safe.”

He waves.

“I will.” And with that he vanishes. The school seems to grow in its solitude, the halls yawning wider, the roofs of classrooms arching into great vaults. Ms. Grundy stands up, as eager as her dearly departed student to get out of here. She sighs as she remembers the great cello she’ll have to lug through the hallway, down a flight of stairs, and across a parking lot.

She’s about to begin the process of packing it away when she hears something. Or doesn’t hear something. It’s one of those agonizing little noises that hover in the back of the mind, leaving one impotent to identify it as either a reality or a figment of the imagination. It didn’t sound so much like a footstep as the impression of a footstep. Ghostly and almost unreal. But real enough to chill her, in light of recent events. Ms. Grundy crams, with much less care than usual, the cello into its case. The bow goes in afterwards, bending under her effort.

“ _Jennifer…”_

Ms. Grundy, or more accurately, Jennifer Gibson, freezes.

She decides to just abandon the cello. She’ll pick it up in the morning. It’ll cut her speed in half getting to her car. And that primal, animal part of her brain screams at her that to lose a second in time now would be fatal. She tries to override such irrational fears. It doesn’t work.

But surely no one called her name? And surely no one called _that_ name?

Ms. Grundy steps out of the music room, but not before looking both ways down the hall, like a child about to cross the street. Though sure she’s quite alone in the building, she dares not kick her fast-paced trot up a notch into a run. That would be to admit herself that she is indeed fleeing something. And that would only heighten the terror.

Single-mindedly focused on exiting the nauseating, lonely labyrinth of the high school, she doesn’t notice the shadow move across her back as she goes. Nor does she hear the next scuffle of a boot upon freshly polished linoleum floors. But she certainly does hear the next ‘ _Jennifer!’_ sharper and clearer this time. Not louder. Just clearer. As if the voice is growing neither farther or closer. Just keeping pace with her.

Now she runs. She races down the last stretch of hallway, through the school’s empty foyer and past the gym and out into the cool evening breeze. There are still a few rays of orange-red sunlight bursting through the banks of grey clouds, even as the stars leap into the sky and the moon materializes in their midst. She shivers.

She reaches into her pocket and fumbles for her keys. Her hands tremble badly. Her fingers close around the familiar metal ring, but as she moves to slip it from her pocket her wrist twitches and the keys go clattering to the cement. Ms. Grundy kneels down to pick them up.

When she rises, she finds herself face to face with a horrible rubber mask twisted into an impossible parody of a human scream. The dark figure floats towards her and a hideous, gleaming knife slides into its hand. She gasps. The phantom grips her tight round the throat, pulls back its right arm, and slams the knife into her gut with so much force she’s sure it will go clean through her spine. She tries to scream, but the pain tearing through her gut is so immense it cuts down anything beyond an awful, pained gurgle. The knife plucks free from her flesh, dripping blood and gore. There’s a moment’s respite, and then it’s rammed into her chest, just below her heart.

Her vision begins to flicker and fade. A twisting web of grey-black darkness envelops her. The figure extracts the knife once more. It raises the weapon before her eyes and waves it to and fro. Mocking. If it weren’t absolutely goddamn impossible, she’d swear the mask was _smiling_. Then the shape flicks the knife back and rams it into her throat. The creeping darkness explodes into her mind’s eye.

She’s still alive when the shape rips the keys from her stiffening hand, unlocks the back door of her car, and stuffs her body into the backseat. The door slams shut.

"Insert reel 2." Hisses her murderer.

And that’s the last thing she hears.

* * *

“Do you really think it could be one of Betty’s parents?” Kevin asks his father.

Sheriff Keller, agonizing over the reams of papers and photographs piled together in great mountains on his desk, shrugs. Who the hell knows? Does he want to imagine anyone from town-anyone he _knows-_ could be behind any of this? Of course not. But that would be Keller, the man, speaking, not the sheriff.

“I don’t know, Kevin. No one’s above suspicion. You know that.”

Hal and Alice Cooper had a perfect alibi of course-they had been attending a journalists’ conference in the city during the time of Jason’s murder. But the city is not so far from Riverdale. To travel to and fro without detection is a trivial matter. Particularly if one had a partner willing to corroborate their alibi. Then there’s matter of motive. Everyone knows there’s never been any love lost between the Coopers and the Blossoms. It’s certainly a tempting theory, in terms of plausibility.

The Coopers are supposed to be coming back into town from said conference, hot on the heels of their daughters’ near murder. Sheriff Keller agonizes over whether or not he ought to pick them up as soon as they show or lurk around a bit more. He doesn’t want to Alice Cooper excoriating him in the pages of the _Register_ because he dared question them.

Some feds from out of town are supposed to be arriving in a few days to ‘lend their assistance’. Which is, of course, FBI-speak for ‘take over the investigation’. He’s a little miffed, but just as relieved. Maybe what this horrorshow needs is an impartial eye or two.

“I kind of wish I’d been there.” Kevin finally mumbles.

“There? Where? 

“With Betty and Jughead and Archie. When…it happened.”

“Why the hell would you wish that?” His father asks.

Kevin takes a moment to conjure up a response.

“I don’t know. Just…maybe I could have seen something they didn’t. This is just…it’s all so freaking weird.”

At that, his phone buzzes. He slides it from his pocket. It’s a text, with a photo attachment, from an unknown number. He furrows his brows. Unlocks the phone. Accesses the message.

He sees the text itself first.

 **SCHOOL’S OUT!** It blares, triumphantly.

Then the picture. Kevin drops the phone. It falls to the carpet and flops over onto its face, mercifully hiding the photograph. Kevin puts one hand to his mouth. He almost retches. His father, re-engrossed in his work, doesn’t even notice. Kevin stumbles backwards, gripping the edge of a couch for stability. A dry squawk comes out of his mouth in place of words.

Finally, he manages to speak.

“Dad…you…you have to come see…dad.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rest in pepperoni
> 
> As always, any and all feedback is appreciated.


End file.
